


NC-17 with Slash on the Side I and II

by scullyslash_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-05-31
Updated: 1998-05-31
Packaged: 2018-11-20 04:19:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11328468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scullyslash_archivist/pseuds/scullyslash_archivist
Summary: Scully seeks help and information from Marita Covarrubias.





	NC-17 with Slash on the Side I and II

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [ScullySlash](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Scully_Slash_Archive), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works.. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [ScullySlash's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/scullyslash/profile).

NC-17 with Slash on the Side  
by Hong Te

* * *

She arches her back, her hands on her hips. Sunlight fall onto her delicate features through the small window. Morning comes to early for her. She wants sleep. She wants rest.

She gets up and open the windows. The sun reflects diamonds off the water drops on the leaves. It rained last night. You can still smell it; the coolness of the waterfall.

You're tired, Scully. You didn't get enough sleep.

She turns around to face him. He's sitting on the floor in a sea of blankets and pillows. Half of his face is visible in the sunlight. The other half is hidden behind the shadows.

She walks and sits down beside him, her bare feet faint and light against the wooden floor.

His safety is more important to her than catching up on her beauty sleep.

But she's sick. He begins to argue with her.

She puts a finger to his mouth. If their plan works, she won't be for long.

They talk over breakfast. About the plan, her illness, his fraudulent death, and later, life before this happened. Was there a time when their life wasn't in danger? When they could use their real names? Did they really walk outside without the fear of being watched?

He leaves the room to sign out while she makes the bed. There is blood on her pillow. Reddish-brown drops, like faded rose petals against the white pillow case. She fingers them, remembering it was her idea to have Mulder "die". She picks up the light knapsack and heads to the door.

She would help him escape. He needed to get away. For the sake of the world, they needed them to believe he was dead.

She shuts the door behind her.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - -

She takes another drink. The alcohol is thick and burns her throat. Melon brandy. Strong stuff. She'd better not be driving. She's eating grapes too. Bitter, sour purple ones. They send their brusque juice down her throat every time she bites. Despite their bitterness, she wants more. She eats them, one after another, savouring the sour flavour, enjoying the acrid torture.

She's not at a bar. She's at a hotel in New York, trying to rid herself of the pain and misery that hiding her partner has caused her. The pain and misery her illness had inflicted upon her.

Mulder was safe in Mexico. New passport, new ID, new life. He was safe for now. She is so worried. So is he. His face when she left him at Albert Hosteen's ranch; it was filled with despair, dread, qualms. He gave her the paper then. A folded white sheet with letters and numbers on it.

She's to phone the person whose name is on it and get the SEP records and bee venom samples, well as other information about the extraterrestrial life found in the Arctic.

She fumbles through her pants pocket looking for the paper. No. It is in her handbag.

She dials the number.

Marita Covarrubias?

Yes.

She needs to speak with her in person.

\- - - - - -

Covarrubias waits at the door for her. It's a calm, clear night, the skies sprinkled with stars. The crescent glow of the moon is visible through the corner of the window. It really looks like the smile that belonged to the Cheshire Cat.

There's a knock at the door and Covarrubias opens it.

How did she get here?

She walked. It isn't far from her hotel. She's shivering.

She needs the SEP records and the bee sting samples. Covarrubias had them ready for hours. They were lying on her desk. She gives them to her.

Scully thanks her.

Where is he?

She doesn't answer. She needs to go.

She's a mess. Covarrubias looks her over. Her hair is tangled, her face streaked with dried tears and dirt. Her eyes are red. She obviously hasn't taken a bath or brushed her hair in days. She can think clearly, but the affects of the alcohol haven't completely worn off.

She's staying. Covarrubias firmly takes her into the washroom.

She struggles. She needs to go.

Her protests are ignored as Covarrubias yanks her into the washroom, her fingers bruising the tender part of her wrist.

Realizing that she is helpless to this determined women in front of her, she relents and allows Covarrubias to clean her.

Deftly, Covarrubias removes her clothes. They are wrinkled, dirty. She had simply slipped on a pair of jeans and a shirt and followed Mulder to Mexico. They didn't have enough time to pack.

She watches as Covarrubias fills the tub. The warm water rising, soothing against her bare skin.

She starts with the feet. Covarrubias raised the sponge over them, squeezing the liquid between her toes, rubbing the sponge over the skin. She moves up, her hands caressing the calves, the thighs. Fingernails lightly outlining the smooth curve of her ass. Scully doesn't protest when she strokes her pubic hair. Her fingers entangled in the curls. Exploring beneath it. Parting the supple flesh so she could find the hot centre.

There's a short piece of string between her legs.

It's her time of the month again.

Can she remove it?

Yes.

The water turns a light pink colour around her fingers.

She wonders aloud if she was ever pregnant.

No. What about Covarrubias?

She once was. A long time ago. But her baby died before it was born.

Scully tells her she's sorry. She's embarrassed.

Don't be.

She enters two digits inside. Warmth and softness overwhelms her, the blood running down her finger and spreading out in the waters. They both moan, touching their breasts. She begins her rhythm, moving her fingers back and forth. Feeling the narrow passage inside.

Scully arches her back and comes, her cries low and full-throated, her legs thrashing. Water splashes off the sides.

The finger slows and slides out.

They smile at each other. Their breaths are loud, hard, erotic.

Why won't she join her?

Covarrubias peels off her clothes. She climbs in behind Scully, spreads her legs around her waist and envelopes her slim body in her arms.

Her hands continue their path up the redhead's belly, drawing invisible patterns on her stomach. She cups her breasts, squeezing gently, her thumbs brushing lightly on the nipples. She enjoys the gasps, the way the body between her legs grows rigid.

She kisses her ear, telling her she's beautiful.

Scully turns, the water lapping over the rim of the tub, so she's facing her, kneeling between her legs.

Their mouth meet, lips wet and full; hungry. They are devouring each other. They wrap their arms around each other, breasts rubbing ardently. Nothing else exist except for the heat and silkiness of each other's body.

They break apart for a moment. To clean each other's body and wash each other's hair. Running their lips over the skin before their hands covers it with soap. Their fingers weaving the shampoo through the wet strands of hair on their head and between their legs. They rinse themselves, hands and lips eagerly wiping off soap and grime.

They are still kissing and touching as the water swirled down the drain into the pipes beneath them, their hands stroking each other's breasts.

She forces Covarrubias back until her head is resting on the wall. Gently, she breaks the fusion between their mouth, her tongue travelling down her wet throat.

It's called the almasy bosphurus. That tiny hallow between the collar bones. Vigilantly, she runs her tongue along it and then bites it, pinching the skin together. She claims that spot. It's hers and no one else's.

She nuzzles her breasts, her mouth sucking hungrily on the nipples. Tongue lapping at it steadily. The hips beneath her rocks to the rhythm, the pelvis bone grinding against her waist.

She is still dripping, her blood staining the tub, leaving a red trail towards the drain, some of it running from Covarrubias' legs which are now spread apart, one of them hanging over the tub, the other one lying against the wall.

Her lips are nuzzling the pubic hair, moving down to the tender, warm core. She parts the folds gently with her thumbs and feels her first with her fingers. She's wet and thick and hot.

She eats her for a long time, her mouth moving with Covarrubias' hips as the blond buckles and groans. The secretion is sweet honey. She licks her clean, her tongue moving in and out of her, sucking voraciously.

Fingers weave through her hair and pull. She hears Covarrubias' cries of pleasure and it inflames her even more. She finds the swollen nubs and takes it in her mouth, running her tongue over it repeatedly.

Covarrubias screams, her legs convulsing, her hands tearing at her. She quiets down slowly, her cries turning into moans, her body slowly relaxing down into the tub.

A chuckle and then a groan is heard from between the open legs. She moves her mouth back down and suckles lightly this time.

A drop of blood lands in Covarrubias' pubic hair. Red liquid running through and onto the dark strands. It's not the blood that drips from between her legs.

Her nose is bleeding again. She jerks up, alarmed, and frantically wipes at it.

Covarrubias is immediately by her side.

Is she alright?

She's fine. She grimaces when she sees the smear of blood on the back of her hand.

Oh fuck.

Here. Covarrubias hands her a Kleenex and wash the blood off both of them. There's tampons in the drawer under the sink and towels on the rack.

When they're dried and Scully has the tampon in, Covarrubias leads them to bed.

They hold onto each other that night. Between silk sheets, their hair spread out on perfumed pillows. Scully cries about her nose bleed, her illness, her partner's deceit against the Consortium. Covarrubias comforts her, stroking her hair, whispering words of assurances and love. Promising that Mulder was going to be fine. She was going to be cured.

Everything was going to be alright.

They fall asleep to the rhythm of each other's breathing.

\- - - - - - -

Did she know where Mulder was?

Yes. Where?

She coughs, her fist against her mouth. Her other hand is cradling the phone. She's happy that the ringing noise didn't wake Scully.

Farmington, New Mexico. With a man named Albert Hosteen.

The words form on her lips but they don't come out.

Excuse me? He thought he heard something.

She clears her throat. And tells him that Fox Mulder is dead.

Was she lying to him?

No.

She did know the consequence of lying to him, did she not?

Yes. She did. Very well. She sees the gun gleaming in the moonlight on the table beside her. Smith and Wesson, 9 mm round.

Good. Those are not the kind of things one should forget.

The dial tone sounds in her ear.

She hangs up.

~~~~~~~

Send all comment to: 

 

* * *

 

NC-17 with Slash on the Side II  
by Hong Te

* * *

Monday  
8:02 pm

The sky above the Hosteen Ranch was a peculiar shade of purple with a few silver stars near the horizon. One would expect them to be higher. But darkness actually doesn't fall. It starts from the bottom, a dark mixture of grey, green, black, and blue, and rises slowly.

It was going to be a clear night. No doubt the farmers would be scurrying to save their crops from the frost. Fox Mulder could hear the distant whirl of the helicopter from a neighbouring farm several miles away. He was sitting in the kitchen, pouring a cup of tea which he drank with slow, sure sips.

It was a peaceful view through the window. Red dust covering the boulders and the hard ground. A rusty copper colour, darkened by the lack of sunlight. It stood out against the blue, white and black of the sky and the opaque light of the stars. Despite the difference between the two shade, the dark red dust reminded Mulder of Scully's hair.

Hell, anything nowadays reminded him of her. Even the dog. Seeing the Hosteen's quiet mutt made Mulder think about Queequeg which led to him to think about Scully. He couldn't get her out of his mind.

"Would you like more tea, Mr. Mulder?" Albert Hosteen walked into the kitchen, his long salt-and-pepper hair tied back behind his back.

"No thank you." Mulder gulped the last mouthful of the lukewarm liquid and set the cup down.

"You look worried," the older man noted.

Mulder didn't move from where he was sitting. "I am."

"About Agent Scully?"

"Yes."

"Where is she?"

"I sent her to acquire information from Marita Covarrubias."

"Do you not trust this Marita Covarrubias?"

Mulder gave a small chuckle. "I don't trust many people, Albert. I don't even trust you one hundred percent."

Hosteen was unaffected by the comment. "It would be foolish if you did." He sat down beside him. "What has you so worried?"

Mulder didn't answer straight away. Instead, he let his gaze wander out

Monday  
8:02 pm

The sky above the Hosteen Ranch was a peculiar shade of purple with a few silver stars near the horizon. One would expect them to be higher. But darkness actually doesn't fall. It starts from the bottom, a dark mixture of grey, green, black, and blue, and rises slowly.

It was going to be a clear night. No doubt the farmers would be scurrying to save their crops from the frost. Fox Mulder could hear the distant whirl of the helicopter from a neighbouring farm several miles away. He was sitting in the kitchen, pouring a cup of tea which he drank with slow, sure sips.

It was a peaceful view through the window. Red dust covering the boulders and the hard ground. A rusty copper colour, darkened by the lack of sunlight. It stood out against the blue, white and black of the sky and the opaque light of the stars. Despite the difference between the two shade, the dark red dust reminded Mulder of Scully's hair.

Hell, anything nowadays reminded him of her. Even the dog. Seeing the Hosteen's quiet mutt made Mulder think about Queequeg which led to him to think about Scully. He couldn't get her out of his mind.

"Would you like more tea, Mr. Mulder?" Albert Hosteen walked into the kitchen, his long salt-and-pepper hair tied back behind his back.

"No thank you." Mulder gulped the last mouthful of the lukewarm liquid and set the cup down.

"You look worried," the older man noted.

Mulder didn't move from where he was sitting. "I am."

"About Agent Scully?"

"Yes."

"Where is she?"

"I sent her to acquire information from Marita Covarrubias."

"Do you not trust this Marita Covarrubias?"

Mulder gave a small chuckle. "I don't trust many people, Albert. I don't even trust you one hundred percent."

Hosteen was unaffected by the comment. "It would be foolish if you did." He sat down beside him. "What has you so worried?"

Mulder didn't answer straight away. Instead, he let his gaze wander out the window again. One star, near the horizon, shining brighter than all the rest caught his eye. He stared it, watching it grow brighter and then dim as more stars appeared into view.

He looked down abruptly into his tea cup. Turning the cup in his hand, studying the remaining liquid. Perhaps trying to determine his fate through the patterns of the tea leaves. When he finally lifted his head to meet Hosteen's gaze, his jaw was tight, his eyes bright and dull at the same time. His voice wavered as he spoke.

"She's dying."

There was silence for a long time. Only the faint whirl of the helicopter was heard. Chopping through the hot air hidden in the stratosphere, forcing it to fall over the crops so they wouldn't die in the frost. The warm air was always there. You simply had to find a way to get it.

Hosteen got up and poured himself a cup. "She won't die. Her plan is brilliant."

"I don't know if my so-called demise would really throw the Consortium an edge. There's too many holes, too many risks, in the plan. One careless move and everyone dies."

"It is risky." Hosteen thought about something. "What about Skinner?"

"What about him?" Mulder sounded tired.

"Why doesn't he allow the twenty Navajo men and I to recite the whole tape as state evidence?"

Renewed curiosity snapped in Mulder's eyes but his expression didn't change. After all, he had experience enough disappointments not to jump at every so-called chance anymore. "I don't know. I should ask..."

"Yes, you should. We need his permission to do so. He did say that if Agent Scully or you caught so much as a case of the flu, I was supposed to recite what's on the tape chapter by chapter, word for word. And I do believe Scully's cancer is far worse than any case of the flu."

The younger man nodded. "No shit it is. I'll try to talk to him." For a moment he looked hopeful. Realization hit a second later like a cold bucket of water and he cursed quietly. "Fuck. I forgot. Krycek."

"Krycek? The man who killed your father?"

"Yes, him. He already sold the information on the tape to the French government. Concealing the material stored in the cassette would be ineffectual to them. The threat's meaningless. That rat bastard. No wonder they didn't keep their end of the bargain. They have nothing to lose if Scully dies."

"But he couldn't possibly have told anyone everything that was on that tape."

Contemplation flickered in Mulder's eyes. "You may be right. I don't know. He couldn't have made a copy, I know that. There was a copy protect on it. And we couldn't get it to print. As far as we're concerned, the only information he leaked was the coordinates of the sunken missile that never made it to Hiroshima." He debated telling Hosteen his belief that the so-called 'missile' was actually a downed UFO, but he decided that that would be the tantamount of adding salt to the oceans.

"I still believe you should contact Skinner and have him help you plan a course of action."

"But how in the hell are we going to contact him without disrupting the Consortium?" He shook his head violently. "I don't know if I even trust him anymore, Albert. I mean, he's hiding something. I know he has something to do with the smallpox and the bees. I feel that he was somehow involved in the death of Jane Brody." Frustration and anger crossed his face. He gritted his teeth and relaxed them, looking up to the ceiling. "I can't believe this! We're running into one brick wall after another. I can't believe this is happening. I don't want to believe..." He gave an exasperated sigh. "Fuck, I can't deal with this. Who would have guessed," his voice grew soft and he shook his head softly. "Who would have guessed she would end up dying?"

"She won't."

Mulder looked up and saw conviction and faith in the Navajo's eyes. His head was turned towards the windows and it looked it he was listening to something, someone, talking. Telling him something important. He wasn't smiling, but his mouth was slightly curved upward.

"They already took her sister," he explained. "For something to live, something must die. Her sister already died for her. The spirits won't let her death be meaningless. Evil doesn't win twice."

Silence.

The helicopter was gone, its job was done. Now the crops were safe from any danger of frost. They would live and grow, their stalks tall and golden in the flash of sun. Later they would be milled into flour, made into bread, provide a family with food for the evening.

"You know, the plan that Agent Scully came up with, I believe it might work. If it does, then you're safe and she'll be cured. You may even get the truth out. And your sister back. You'll going to have to trust her on this one, Agent Mulder."

Just having Tinklebell's fairydust won't get your feet off the ground. You must believe you can fly.

Slowly, Mulder felt his frustration and anger subside to hope and aspiration. "I want to believe," Mulder said softly.

The older man took Mulder's hand and held it firmly.

The sky was completely dark now, more stars appearing near the top of the dome, like beacons. Lighting the way for some soul wandering lost and forlorn in the dark vastness.

Hosteen's voice was as resolute as his grip on Mulder's hand.

"I do believe."

\- - - - - - - - - - - -

Tuesday  
7:14 am

She put the phone back on the hook. She should have been afraid -lying to them was nothing short of stupid and perilous -but she felt no fear or regrets about denying them the whereabouts of Agent Mulder. Even if they tortured her, she'd maintain her position that Fox Mulder was dead. Committed suicide. One single gunshot wound to the head.

She was no longer concerned with what they'd do to her. Yes, they were dangerous people. They'd kill anyone who got in the way of their /work/. But she no longer cared. Selfish, acquisitive, deceptive Marita Covarrubias not caring about what would happen to her. The thought made her chuckle mirthlessly. It been a long time since she cared about anything, anyone, other than herself.

It wasn't that she actually gave half a shit about what happened to Mulder. He could rot in hell for all she cared. Nor did she care much for the project. Or the safety of the human race.

Oh fuck that.

She only had one thought in her mind. Agent Scully was dying.

Strange that the only emotion she felt was an emptiness where Scully was concerned. She had only met the agent the day before. Scully had come to her looking for the bee venom samples, SEP records, and some information about the life form found up in the Arctic. Of course, the data Covarrubias handed to her was spurious. More than that, she was supposed to take advantage of the visit to determine the location of the younger woman's partner. But instead, she found herself feeling sympathetic towards her.

Scully came into her apartment dirty, distraught, upset. For reasons only God could explain, Covarrubias had insisted on giving her a bath. Whether it was the exhaustion or the strain, or both, she didn't know and at the time she didn't really didn't give a shit, but the agent had acquiesced. They ended up making love right there in the tub.

Covarrubias smiled at the memory. Over her life time, she had slept with many people, mostly men, some women. And by the way Scully ate her up yesterday, she was pretty damn sure that it wasn't the agent's first time with a woman either. They had enjoyed each other's company last night.

Until Scully's nose starting bleeding.

Damn that cancer.

Covarrubias put the coffee maker on in the kitchen.

Damn that fucking cancer.

She walked over to her bedroom. Scully was sleeping on her side, her arm still slightly outstretched after Covarrubias had untangled herself from the intertwined sheets and limbs. They had fallen asleep in each other's embrace, Covarrubias stroking Scully's silky hair while the redhead had poured out her anguish and qualms through her tears.

Covarrubias leaned over and touched her cheek. Scully made a face and whacked at the hand, eliciting a laugh from the blonde. She went to bend down and nuzzle her neck but stopped half way.

Go on. You know what you want to do it.

She straightened her shoulders and sat up. The time wasn't right yet. Maybe if Scully's nose didn't start bleeding, if she hadn't cried herself to sleep last night, if...if

She wasn't so sick with cancer.

She ran her finger along Scully's exposed shoulder and neck without touching the skin. A whisper of a caress.

No, it wouldn't be right to touch her now. Not under the circumstances. Scully was still upset, agitated, scared, and Covarrubias felt it would be best if she didn't sleep with her until she was feeling better. Both emotionally and physically.

Covarrubias had never known anyone with cancer. She hated hospital and sick and dying people.

What a fine job you picked to work for.

She did her best to keep an arm's length, mentally, emotionally, from the people she was sent to destroy.

A bit too harshly, she shook Scully's shoulder, willing the redhead to wake up. She did, a confused, bewildered look on her face. Covarrubias felt a stab of guilt and jerked her hands off her shoulders. "Sorry about that," she said sheepishly.

Scully shook her head and smiled.

What a beautiful smile she has.

"It's okay." She sat up, holding the sheet to her breasts. She was still naked. Covarrubias had thrown a bathrobe on when the phone rang early in the morning. Scully took Marita's hand into her own and squeezed it. Remorse rose in Covarrubias' throat.

Suddenly Scully's face twisted into fear and she turned sharply to her pillow. The older woman felt a stab at her heart for she knew what Scully was looking for.

It wasn't there. The pillow was clean.

Scully breathed a sigh of relief. "I wouldn't want to ruin such an expensive pillow case," she said, the cracking in her voice betraying her intentions of sounding casual.

Covarrubias didn't share her sense of humour. "Agent Scully," she said firmly. "You're very sick. You were bleeding. I recommend you go to the hospital."

"I'm f-"

"Like fuck you're fine," Covarrubias snapped. She softened her tone at Scully's look of surprise. Sighed in frustration. "I never knew a sick person," she confessed quietly.

Liar!

"Please bear with me. I don't know how to act around someone with any terminal disease." She paused. Scully looked at her, understanding in her eyes. "I...I don't have a clue what cancer does, or how you must suffer. But I do know that you're too sick to be running around like you had in the last few days. Getting yourself drunk and wasted. You should be resting. All this anxiety can't be good for you. Or ..."

Scully's knuckle were so white from clenching her fist so hard. Please don't let it be a repeat of the argument I had with my brother earlier. Please don't ask me about Mulder. Or question what I'm doing. Please. I can't take it.

Covarrubias stopped her tirade and noted the strained look on the agent's face. She panicked.

What the hell do I do?

She finally picked up one of Scully's hand and unclenched it. One finger at a time until all five digits were sprayed out in the air. She looked into Scully's eyes. Two rims of colour, the blue surrounding the black. Forget-me-not eyes. They were the most beautiful things she had ever seen. Her voice was soft when she spoke. "What if I give Mulder the information? I'll catch a flight to New Mexico tonight. You should stay here. They'll follow you if you go."

The agent's fingers, rigid and straight in the air, began to relax.

The blonde opened her mouth to add "You should rest" when she remembered that although Scully was sick and possibly weak, she was also stubborn. And as long as the agent had strength in her bones, she would do everything in her power to keep her partner safe. Even if it jeopardised her health.

That bastard better appreciate what she goes through for him.

"Here." Covarrubias got up and opened the drawer beside the bed. Retrieved the original bee venom and handed it over to Scully. The younger woman sat up straighter, examining the content of the vial.

Covarrubias couldn't resist. She admired the smooth creaminess of Scully's neck and back. How the silky red hair brushed lightly against the porcelain slope of her neck. The slim ivory hands that turned the sample back and forth.

She doesn't look sick.

Than again, how would Covarrubias know? She did her damnedest to stay away from anyone who was.

"You can analyse it in the lab. Maybe you might be able to develop an antitoxin."

Scully nodded. "Thank you," she said softly.

Covarrubias knew what she meant. She wasn't just thanking her for the sample. She was also thanking her for not insisting that she rest, go to the hospital, for not treating her like a sick person.

The UN worker nodded and then looked down at her hands, wondering if she was doing the right thing. Honestly, she had no idea what she was doing. She was riding on auto pilot and she prayed her abrupt decisions were the best ones.

Coolly, clinically like a doctor looking over his patient, she lifted her head and looked over the agent sitting on her bed. Scully seemed calmer today. The worry lines were still there and her eyes shone with fear. She was still thinking about Mulder and the precarious plan. But she held her poise and her voice was strong, determined. She seemed well enough. Than again, looks could be deceiving.

Oh God, please, tell me I'm doing the right thing. I don't want to hurt her.

She cleared her throat. Scully placed the venom on the dresser beside her and looked up. "About last night...are you okay with it?"

Scully smiled again. "Yes. I am. Why would you ask?"

The blond shrugged. "I don't know...it was almost like taking advantage of you. I mean, your life was in danger and you were scared...you're separated from your partner...you were upset, getting over a bad hangover...and...you...you..."

Marita Covarrubias, you're stuttering. You're positively stuttering.

The thought brought a small smile to her lips and she caught the smile widening on Scully's face.

For a moment, the fear and anguish in Scully's eyes died. "I didn't mind," she assured her, reaching out a hand and touching Covarrubias's shaky one. "You may have started it, but I was the one who asked you to join me in the tub. Hell, I even ate you." She laughed. "Perhaps it happened a little too fast, I'm never that impulsive, but I really don't care. After my life's been in limbo for so long, I guess it was even good for me." Her expression grew serious. "I have no regrets."

The older woman nodded. "Thank you."

Scully kneeled on the bed. The bed creaked beneath her and she gently took Covarrubias' hand, dragging her forward, and, tenderly, placed her mouth in the dent between the collar bones and kissed it. After all, it was hers. She claimed that spot yesterday, when they were making love.

Against her better judgement, Covarrubias licked her ear quickly and released her, admiring her body one last time before she tossed a business outfit on the bed for Scully to wear and searched for a tampon. She held tlong plug in her hand while Scully pull on the blouse and it took every ounce of will power she possessed not to change Scully's tampon for her. She wanted to slide her fingers inside Scully's passage again, feel the heat and softness pulsing around them, have the thick, warm blood run down her hand. She wanted to move inside of her, feel her from the inside, before inserting the clean tampon in. Her fingers began twitched with remembrance, with desire.

Somehow she banished the thought and laid the tampon on the dresser. Although Scully didn't say anything, she left the room so the agent could change in privacy. Even though she knew Scully didn't mind what had happened the night before, the Covarrubias made a promise that she wouldn't do anything sexual and intimate with the redhead again unless circumstances were right.

It might take a long time before their sexual intentions could be something more than a passing fancy, an occurrence to help them forget their sorrows for one night. She might never get to sleep with her again.

But she could wait until Scully was ready.

She would wait.

\- - - - - - - - - - - -

Tuesday  
9:25 am

She had never liked the cigarette smoking man. Mind you, she never disliked him either. He was just another employer. That was how she looked at what she did. A job. Just get it done and take the money and go home. It made it easier. Easier to ignore the lies, the deception, the fact that her victims may have families and people who love them. Or worse, that they didn't have families and people who loved them. She ignored them so well that they became a part of her, the lies, the deception, the ignorance.

So to her, the cigarette smoking man had been just her boss. Someone who paid her. Someone who you see when you have a deadline and you erase from your thoughts as soon as the meetings are over. Not someone to have an opinion about. Not someone to like or to dislike.

Now she hated him. Hated him with every breath in her body. She clenched her fists in her lap and looked him in the eyes. They were almost black, two dark lobes that reminded her of empty space. Nearly devoid of all emotions. Except for the edges where human fragments shone faintly. She did everything she could to avoiding looking there. She refused to believe he was human. If she did, she wouldn't be able to hate him. And that was all she wanted to do right now.

Hate him.

He spoke casually, waving the cigarette in the air, the smoke rising in swirls in the humid air. "You told us earlier that Agent Mulder was dead."

She kept her voice even. "I did."

"Is that what Agent Scully told you?"

She hated the way he spoke. The way he emphasized the "sc" in Scully. The way every other syllable seemed to rise a pitch.

"Yes. Agent Scully told me she believed her partner was dead."

"Did she?" Mock astonishment was heavy in his tone. Red blazes glittered for a second from the end of his cigarette as he took in a breath. The noxic fume would fill his mouth, fall through his throat, and settle in his lungs. It will remain there for seven years, killing him slowly. She prayed that his death be slow and painful. Little did she knew that her wish would be granted in the near future.

"Do you believe she's lying?"

Covarrubias knew she had to play her cards strategically. She answered, "No. She seemed very distraught when I met her yesterday. Those were not fraudulent emotions. She firmly believed he was dead. Than again, I wouldn't know how well she lies."

He crushed his cigarette in the ash tray, breaking eye contact for only a few short moments. When he looked back, she saw a little desperation in them. "Do you believe Agent Mulder committed suicide?" he asked.

"If you're asking me whether or not I believed he was murdered, I don't know."

The desperation grew. "Do you believe he's dead?"

"I would have to see the body," she replied

Not the answer he wanted. He sighed. "We're having the body verified tomorrow. It appears to be Agent Mulder's. It even bears his birthmarks and scars."

"Is Agent Scully doing the post mortem?"

"Of course not. Dr. Lynch is."

"I guess we'll find out then." She started to relax. "Is that all?"

"No." He pulled out another cigarette and a lighter. An orange glow luminated the inside of his hand as he covered the flame. He exhaled another puff of smoke. "Are you familiar with a man named Walter Skinner?"

"Yes. He's the assistant director of the bureau, Mulder and Scully's employer."

"You know he's working for us?"

"Yes."

"Against his will, unfortunately. We made a deal. He's aiding the project in exchange for Agent Scully's life."

Her chest seared with a sharp pain for a moment. "I know that."

"I'm beginning to question his loyalty to the project. In fact, I firmly believe he's somehow involved with Agent Mulder's timely demise. Funny how he died just as Scully's cancer was approaching its apex. Almost propitious. Convenient really." He handed her a thick envelope, the fold tucked in. "Give this to Skinner and inform him he has until Thursday evening to complete the task."

The envelope seemed to burn her hand.

He continued. "If he does not, or if he relinquishes any evidence that would incriminate us, you are to dispose of him. In any manner that you deem appropriate."

She nodded. He began to make a signal that she could leave but she remained in her seat, curiousity prevailing over security. "May I ask why Agent Mulder's death is so relevant to the project?"

He looked away and the lines on his face seem to harden. "He was important to the equation. I won't tell you anymore than that."

Covarrubias's pale blue eyes rose a bit. She was beginning to understand Scully and Mulder's plan. Fucking courageous little idiots, if you asked her. The plan was so crazy it just might work.

"You may go."

Covarrubias thanked him and made her way to the door. She tugged on the handle and stopped. Turned to the agitated older man sitting at his desk. She had to know. "Sir," she said cautiously. She never called him that. She never called anyone sir. "Is Agent Scully going to be cured?"

He eyed her suspiciously. It was that moment, that split second, that a gorge was delved between the two. They would no longer work together, each fighting for their own cause. His eyes never left her face throughout his response. "She might be. If it's in the interest of our work."

Of course. She nodded her head. "Thank you." With great care she shut the care quietly behind her. Another chapter of her life finished. She would not look back.

Heels clicking on the hard marble floor, she went to her office and opened the envelope. The contents fell out loosely. A picture of a young man with blond hair dressed in medical attire. A piece of paper with many words written in a terse, sloppy handwriting: "I cannot live with myself..." The pen the note was written with.

And a syringe.

She slid them back in and made a phone call. Her movements were automatic. Stop a cab. Hop in. Give directions. Tell the driver to hurry.

She had a plane to catch.

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End file.
